


Messages of the Heart

by RefrainGirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Ansaphone Tapes, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Artist Aziraphale (Good Omens), Artist Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Don’t copy to another site, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Eventual Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kind Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Marriage Proposal, Married Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pansies with attitude, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Poetry, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Romantic Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, they only draw one pic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24403543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RefrainGirl/pseuds/RefrainGirl
Summary: He honestly hadn’t meant to make such a mess of things! Stubbing his toe on the box really had been an accident, and a painful one at that. But as soon as the box’s contents had spilled out, Aziraphale only had to take one good look to forget all about the importance of privacy. He swiped a hand through the vast pile at his feet, eyes widening in awe at what he had just discovered.When Crowley steps out, leaving nothing but a brief note for Aziraphale to watch after his plants, the angel isn't quite sure what to think. But as he spends some time at Crowley's flat, he winds up unearthing an old box filled with even older secrets - except for that fairly modern one?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Houseplants (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Houseplants (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 141





	Messages of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [His Voice, Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21617401) by [RebeccaStevenTaylor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaStevenTaylor/pseuds/RebeccaStevenTaylor). 



> God, this story was a monster. It took me ages to edit, mainly because I let it sit long enough to be able to do a vastly improving rewrite on the whole thing. *wipes sweat from brow* I'm glad it's done though, because I am so proud of how this turned out! It started from a post I saw on Tumblr that I can't seem to find, but that's okay because after a long time of hiding in my WIPs, I find that this new rewrite is now more inspired by the story that accompanied that post! After reading it, I ended up taking this thing in such a different direction than I'd originally planned! The link should be above this, and I totally encourage you to check that fic out! It's awesome!
> 
> Also, Artist Crowley is the best. I love that headcanon so much<3
> 
> As always, I hope you all enjoy!

It felt strange walking into someone’s home when they weren’t there. It made you feel invasive, almost. Like you were trespassing, or walking in on someone’s private life or, even worse, like the owner wouldn’t be coming back despite the note left on the counter claiming that they would be back soon.

Aziraphale had received a note along those lines early this morning, although it had been slipped through the bookshop door’s mail slot rather than left out on a counter. Honestly, even if he had found the note sitting open on his counter, it would have done nothing to reassure him. Notes such as the one he was crinkling in his clenched fist were rarely good, and rarely came about for good reasons. Slowly he swung the door to Crowley’s flat open and stuck his head inside. “Hello?” he called, not quite sure why he was bothering with announcing his presence. “Anybody home?”

As expected, there was no answer other than the overwhelming, deafening drone of silence. Aziraphale thought he could hear the shivering of leaves quietly carrying over from a distant room, but that was it. Everything else was bland, lifeless. Impossibly sterile and unnaturally perfect. It made the angel wonder if this was why Crowley always paid his shop so many visits. He had never been to a place that felt so… unlived in. Sure, his bookshop was cluttered and filled to the brim with dust, but at the end of the day it felt like his space, a quiet little nook of contentedness that he could retreat into after hours of stress and just relax. Crowley didn’t appear to have such a sanctuary, and despite his desire to live in eternal cleanliness he never seemed to mind the disarray of Aziraphale’s quaint old shop. Or if he did, he never said a thing about it, which was strange considering his tendency to find anything and everything to dramatically complain about.

Even stranger than that had been Crowley’s reaction whenever Aziraphale finally got up the nerve to mention the idea of paying a visit to his flat, under the claim of being curious about the layout and whatnot (but mostly he had just wanted an excuse to spend time with the demon). Every time Crowley had become unusually quick to deflect the suggestion and, not wanting to push the boundaries of their relationship unreasonably far, Aziraphale had always thought it better to leave it at that. He couldn’t understand what the problem might have been back then; but now that he was here, peering around sleek, modern furniture and bland granite walls, he no longer found it strange that Crowley refused to let him, or anyone else for that matter, inside his flat. It was set up like a jail cell, and he was probably of the mind that he should be the only one trapped in it. Wrong on all counts, but it would likely take quite a while for Crowley to see that.

Aziraphale didn’t want to reread the note that Crowley had written him. He was suffering under enough anxiety as it was; but that selfsame anxiety was what forced him to double-check the now greatly wrinkled piece of paper anyway, and he felt a knot of unpleasant tightness coil in his gut as he skimmed over the same, unchanging words.

_Hi angel._ _No time to talk, so I’ll leave you with the basics. I_ _t’d be great if you could check on the plants once in a while. Now I know you aren’t the shouty type so don’t stress over that, they’ll be fine with a bit of peace and quiet. Lulls ‘em into a false sense of security._

_I will say this - absolutely_ do not _compliment them! And no miracles! It may be tempting, trust me I know for you that’d be extremely tempting, but just don’t do it! I’ve got a great system going and being remotely nice is gonna ruin it! So just do me a favor, and water them and that’s it._

_Stay safe, and I’ll see you soon._

_Anthony J. Crowley._

For reasons unbeknownst to Aziraphale, Crowley had decided not to elaborate on what his plans were. There were no details, no proper explanations save for the hurried (and yet very specific) instructions on caring for his plants. Signing his full name wasn’t necessary but he had done it regardless, and the fact that he had made Aziraphale worry even more. Could Crowley have been that distracted when he was writing this note? What might have been occupying his thoughts as he was bringing pen to paper? He hoped it had nothing to do with Hastur or anyone else from Downstairs. It was sadistic, the way Hastur had smirked at him in Hell, his rotting teeth glistening with menace in the flickering lights as Michael poured the holy water bath...

Oh Lord, what if Crowley had been under observation the whole time, thanks to him!?

These thoughts did nothing to ease the angel’s concerns, but then he did have a habit of fretting a little too much. Heaven and Hell had been ignoring their existence for the last couple months. Aziraphale knew that, and he knew he should have been happy about it. Instead, all he could think about was the worst possible outcome, how it was hiding around every corner, observing them from every nook in every cranny. Eyes everywhere, always watching, tireless and cold.

Stay safe. Wasn’t it… safe?

If Crowley were here, he would tell Aziraphale that even if there was trouble on the horizon, they would figure it out somehow. Together.

But he wasn’t here right now, and that was the problem.

Aziraphale forced his lungs to let out a breath, slowly. He needed to have more faith in his demon. Crowley wasn’t a completely careless individual. Even when driving like a bat out of Hell, he still adhered to certain standards (to ensure the safety and preservation of his car more than anything else, but still). He had learned early on in life to be wary, especially around other demons. They couldn’t be trusted farther than one could spit, he’d often say. That unsanitary image didn’t sit well with Aziraphale, and it never would. However, he did agree with Crowley, even if the metaphor was a bit crass. The fact that he had survived for so many centuries was proof of his skills when it came to dealing with demons, and though he had yet to hear any stories involving angels, Aziraphale was certain that Crowley would be doubly careful around them as well. Really, there was nothing to worry about, was there?

… He wished his brain would accept that as easily as the rest of him did.

Aziraphale silently admonished himself for harboring doubt as the door slid closed behind him. A loud, shuddering slam echoed throughout the flat, then it was deathly still once more. This was too quiet. He missed Crowley’s rough speech, his laughter. He missed Crowley more than he could say. Right now, this flat sounded as hollow as his heartbeat.

God, he missed Crowley.

* * *

With nothing else to distract him from his thoughts, Aziraphale decided to take his plant-watching duties seriously. At least doing something with his hands was distracting in the sense that he had to actually watch what he was doing. Using the plant mister that Crowley had helpfully left out on his desk, he sprayed a thin sheen of water all over the glossy leaves of a few potted plants. Most of them only required a certain amount anyway, and he definitely didn’t want to overdo it. Then he would have to apologize for drowning Crowley’s plants, and he would rather not drown them in the first place.

They seemed appreciative of the attention he was giving them, although they were also a bit trepidatious of what he might do next. Aziraphale remembered Crowley’s warning about being kind, but he simply couldn’t stop himself from reassuring them, even slightly, that he meant no harm. Of all the beings in the world, Aziraphale understood the importance of being supportive when others were struggling.

“Hello there. Aziraphale, former angel of Heaven,” he introduced himself, whispering conspiratorially behind his hand. “I’ve been tasked with caring for you over the next couple of days… or however long Crowley has decided to step out. I felt I should let you know that I don’t have it in me to yell at you poor dears. You have nothing to fear from me. All the same, it would be quite helpful if you didn’t tell Crowley about how polite I was to you.”

He could sense the confusion of the plants already. Some of their leaves tilted forward, brushing along his shoulders with perplexed relief, and he smiled as gently as he could. “It’s nothing more than a small white lie,” he explained, carefully patting the backs of the leaves as if they were someone’s uncertain, trembling hands. “I’m sure he won’t be too upset about it. As long as you act normally when he returns, all will be well.”

Aziraphale had been misting the rest of the plants while he talked, stepping over to give each leaf a decent spritzing before moving on to the next one. Slowly, those leaves followed behind him, stretching out in gratefulness and, if he didn’t know any better, asking as politely as plantly possible if they could give him a comforting hug of their own. He did feel as if a hug might make him feel better about Crowley’s absence; but by the time he was finished watering the plants in the plant room, there was a last plant that needed attention. The dirt in its pot was driest of all, and Aziraphale could hear it asking loudly for a drink. The others whispered to him, rather than shouting, but this one was insistent. He couldn’t ignore such an earnest plea, no matter how soothing a plant hug sounded at the moment, so he declined the offer as politely as he could, suggesting that perhaps later he might return to claim the hug. Thankfully the other plants seemed to understand, and Aziraphale turned to follow the sound of this thirsty plant’s voice.

It led him into Crowley’s bedroom, a stark, unwelcoming area that was also in immaculate condition. Not a stitch out of place, not a dust mote to be seen. Everything had a similar modern touch to it - black silk bedsheets, a streamlined dresser and nightstand. No windows, no natural light. How anyone could possibly find a way to get a decent night’s sleep in this glass box, Aziraphale didn’t know. He supposed that Crowley must be used to it by now, but he must get so lonesome in this flat too, waking up to such bleak surroundings every morning and drifting off to their shadows each night. He could only imagine how often Crowley wished for something else, to be some _where_ else, somewhere lively and warm. Like a certain bookshop…

A light blush dusted his cheeks at the thought. Was that not why Crowley came by so regularly?

Oh. But there was a bit of uniqueness to the room after all. Aziraphale had to blink back his surprise. Directly beside what he assumed was Crowley’s side of the bed, sitting proudly on the nightstand, was a bright and lovely bundle of pansies. White flowers, their petals edged with violet. These were _his_ pansies, the ones that he had gifted to Crowley nearly a month ago. Aziraphale remembered doing a great deal of reading on the subject, just to get the seeds he’d bought to grow into healthy sprouts. No miracles had been used, he had raised them the human way - with ample sunlight, water and care. When he’d presented his gift to Crowley, the demon’s first reaction had been to hug the pot close to his chest, like it was the most valuable treasure in the world. Then his second and more memorable reaction had been to place the pansies aside and tug Aziraphale into his arms, like _he_ was the most valuable treasure in the world.

Aziraphale wasn’t surprised because Crowley had kept the flowers. What shocked him was the fact that Crowley kept the flowers _in his bedroom_ , kept them in a spot where he could see them even if he was trying to sleep. They were sitting within a comfortable breathing distance as well, so he could bask in their pleasant scent while he slumbered. Aziraphale briefly wondered if his pansies were what provided Crowley with decent dreams at night, and the very idea made his blush return with a vengeance.

The pansies looked just as healthy as the other plants, even though their pot was in need of a good dousing. But it was weird how Aziraphale could sense no apprehension coming from them. Rather, the pansies seemed to remember him, and quite fondly at that, their tiny voices perking up happily when the angel stepped further into the doorway.

“Well. Hello again,” he said, stepping closer towards the pot. Reaching over to run his fingers tenderly through the assortment of bright petals, Aziraphale smiled. “You’ve blossomed beautifully since I last saw you.”

He had to wonder why the pansies weren’t concerned about being spoken to so sweetly. They seemed to embrace it far more than the rest of the plants did, yearning for it with an eagerness that matched a certain demon’s. It was almost as if Crowley spoiled them rotten with compliments on a daily basis.

Aziraphale took his time watering them, mumbling soft words and smiling with a kind of bliss that Crowley always managed to make him feel. Looking at his pansies as they sat in a windowless room, flourishing happily despite their less than optimal positioning, he just knew that Crowley cared for them a great deal. He went to a lot of effort for them, just as he did for Aziraphale. Their continued existence was proof that not everything in Crowley’s life was filled with despair, and it made the angel get more than a bit teary-eyed, if he were being honest.

After he had finished watering the pansies, he realized with a start that there was no other reason for him to stay. His plant duties were complete, and so the memories of Crowley started to become inevitably tinged with that underlying anxiety again. Aziraphale frowned as soon as he noticed it, and turned to go. He didn’t want his purest memories to be consumed by the imagined notion that there would never be a chance to make more. If he went back to the bookshop, he could read for a while, calm his nerves and try to trust that Crowley would eventually return, safe and sound.

He hadn’t taken more than half a step when he stubbed his big toe on a protruding corner of something that was looking very out of place underneath the bed. Strange, Crowley was usually so concise with the placement of his possessions. “Mother of pearl!” Aziraphale spat, wincing from the throbbing agony dancing along his toe. Whatever had done this was big, and sturdy. He gingerly got down onto his knees, picked up the offending object and placed it onto the mattress, examining it with a cocked eyebrow. It looked like an old cardboard box, ordinary, decently heavy. Whatever was inside, it was either big enough to fill his arms or there was enough of it to considerably weigh them down.

To say that Aziraphale was curious would have been an understatement, extremely so. But he didn’t want to betray Crowley’s trust by snooping. That wasn’t what respectable people did, and he certainly considered himself to be a respectable person. He fully intended to put the box back exactly where he found it, and that was what he was going to do, curious or not!

That _was_ the idea until the bottom of the box gave way in a crescendo of sound. Not two seconds later Aziraphale heard quiet laughter shivering in the air, and he pouted his annoyance over towards the pansies. They quieted down after a while, but Aziraphale could feel their amusement lingering in the silence of the bedroom. He honestly hadn’t meant to make such a mess of things! Stubbing his toe on the box really had been an accident, and a painful one at that. But as soon as the box’s contents had spilled out, Aziraphale only had to take one good look to forget all about the importance of privacy. He swiped a hand through the vast pile at his feet, eyes widening in awe at what he had just discovered.

All around him, splayed all over the floor, were tapes, and not just any tapes. They were small ansaphone cassettes. Each one had dates written on the label in black pen, some recent and others dating back to almost the very first years of the machine’s ownership, but there were no names on them anywhere.

To anyone else, it wouldn’t be considered a significant find. But Aziraphale was absolutely floored, and had every right to be.

Nobody other than him (and Hastur) had used Crowley’s ansaphone for anything of import. Also, Aziraphale was pretty sure that he was the only one who had the demon’s number (unless you counted those endless swarms of telemarketers that Crowley constantly ignored, and Aziraphale didn’t). If that was the case, then every single one of these tapes had messages from him on it.

Every. Single. One.

* * *

Listening to his voice when it wasn’t actually coming from his throat was surreal.

Aziraphale didn’t know if he would ever get used to it, really. He had a much older phone at the shop, and it just didn’t save messages like Crowley’s did. When he wasn’t there, the phone would ring endlessly until the person calling either gave up or decided to try again. The only time it took messages was when Aziraphale was actually there to answer, and he used a pen and notepad for taking those down. Crowley frequently reminded him that he needed to update his phone technology, but he had yet to do that, much to the demon’s utter annoyance.

Odd as it was to hear himself speak, Aziraphale found that the messages in that big box weren’t anything too special. The first few tapes that had started the pile, ones that had the early 1960’s written on them, were mostly just him failing to understand the concept of leaving a message. He’d thought Crowley had picked up those times, and had carried on a conversation expecting the demon to answer him. These tapes had quite a bit of wear on them. Aziraphale wondered if these were Crowley’s favorites. They were a bit embarrassing to listen to, but he supposed that Crowley listened fondly to the messages, recalling a time when that technology was brand new and the angel’s lack of understanding towards it was the same as always.

“Why would he enjoy listening to me babble on like that?”

He blushed slightly, ejecting the tape and sifting through the rest of the pile at random. There were too many to listen to every single one, and Aziraphale already felt guilty about listening to the few that he’d picked out. Really, he should be putting them all back. The way things were now, Crowley would probably be able to tell that he had listened to his tapes, and who knew how upset he might be.

Gradually he began to scoop up the tapes in his hands, dumping them as carefully as he could back inside the taped up box. His curiosity was still prickling at him, but no, he was disobeying Crowley enough as it was. First he treated his plants with kindness, and now this. Could he be forgiven? Maybe if he came clean and apologized sincerely...

Aziraphale was about to fold the box shut when he noticed a stray tape, lying on Crowley’s desk beside the ansaphone and another, much fancier box. He was fairly certain that that one hadn’t come from the big box he had found. It read ‘2019’, so this was one of the most recent tapes to date, but there was another, more important detail that made his breath catch.

Meticulously drawn beside the current year was a heart. Not just any heart, but a beautiful, tartan heart with gorgeous angel wings the colour of pure snow. Every feather was drawn perfectly, as if from memory. And it was then that Aziraphale realized what they were supposed to represent. Crowley hadn’t just drawn any old pair of wings onto the tape. He had seen Aziraphale’s wings a few times over the centuries, but the angel could never have guessed that he would remember them this completely. They were large enough to fully envelop the heart, and when one looked closely, there was a bare hint of gold tipping each individual feather. Detail by detail, piece by piece, it became obvious that the wings belonged to none other than him.

Aziraphale could feel his pulse quicken as he reached out towards the picture. The wings looked to be soft and fluffy to the touch, and he almost expected them to feel just as his real wings did. Reverent fingertips brushed against the heart, and he sighed. “Oh, Crowley...” he whispered, his eyes swimming, heart drowning in the deepest pool of longing that he’d ever been lost in. “I see. This is the one.”

This had to be the favorite. All of the others had been listened to until their dates became faded and discolored, the ink getting smudged worse and worse by Crowley’s repetitive playbacks. Even the newer ones looked similar; yet this tape, this extremely specific tape, had been listened to maybe a handful of times, at most. It was special, isolated from the rest and kept in pristine condition, only to be used when Crowley deemed it absolutely necessary.

Aziraphale felt his hands move of their own accord as he picked up the tape, slipped it inside the ansaphone and slowly pressed play.

_........ Hello, Crowley. It’s me, if you haven’t guessed that already. Are you well? I haven’t heard from you since our dinner at the Ritz._

There was a soft, fond chuckle that Aziraphale recalled. This felt like it had just happened yesterday, it was so familiar. He found himself wringing his hands together as the message continued.

_I suppose you decided to get in that week’s worth of sleep, then? I can’t blame you for being exhausted. Maintaining the poor Bentley must have drained the life out of you on your trip to Tadfield. I’m so glad it’s alright. I know how dear it is to you. But, please don’t be angry when I say that I’m even more glad that you are alright. If you had burned away instead of the Bentley, then I... well... I’d rather not think of what I might’ve done._

The speech was there in his mind, unbidden, and he didn’t even need to listen to the tape anymore. He could recite it word for word, and he did.

“You are the stars, and I am the sun. We were never meant to touch, close but never connected. I glimpsed you from afar, admired you, bathed in your foreign light... and for the first time, I knew of sadness. I knew of distance, and time, and the space between that cascaded on into eternity. I would wake each morning and spend each breath on you, searching for a way to reach you, hoping for a sign that my heart was not alone. And then, one day, it arrived. You arrived. Day turned to night, and night to day. Our love eclipsed the distance, erased the time. Now, I have you in my arms at last. I’m not ever letting go of you, Crowley. There is no one who could keep me from you. My dearest, most precious demon... I am yours, forevermore unto the end of everything and beyond.”

_I hope this message finds you well, and, er, please call me as soon as you are able. I’ll be awaiting the sound of your voice, my love._

A bit of static cut off the end of the message, and Aziraphale let out a shaky breath. The level of emotion in his voice was the same as then. He didn’t have to try hard. His feelings hadn’t changed since Armageddidn’t.

Yes, this was Crowley’s favorite tape, and he could understand why. He had been waxing poetic a bit, and Crowley had once admitted to enjoying it when he spoke in such a way. But in reality, Aziraphale knew that it was the sentiment that Crowley adored. Poetry was all about the sentiment, after all. He had always loved the expression of emotion through stanzas and verses. The way it flowed through your soul like a river, winding and fluid, carrying you down a slope that you dare not climb out of. Crowley loved poetry because of what it made him feel.

And Aziraphale had laid his heart quite bare that day, indeed.

He smiled down at the tape, admiring what he could see of Crowley’s heart drawing through the ansaphone’s plastic screen. That demon really could be quite skilled when he put his mind to it. And he’d even used tartan as the main color. How sweet.

The anxiety that had been eating away at Aziraphale all day long was quiet. His mind and heart were still, tranquil in the realization that Crowley had gone to such lengths to preserve his words, his feelings.

Now then...

Where did Crowley keep his new ansaphone tapes...?

* * *

All in all, it had been a good weekend for Crowley. The specialty shop he’d planned on visiting didn’t have what he was originally looking for, but he ended up with a suitable surprise present regardless. The tartan drapes he’d found looked amazing in the windows of his angel’s bedroom, and Aziraphale had been more than pleased with the gift. Although Crowley disagreed that tartan was once again becoming a plausible style choice, he could never suppress a grin whenever he brought something with that pattern back for Aziraphale. His eyes lit up every time, and that splendidly dimpled smile…

Yeah, his smile was worth spending a million dollars on tartan anything.

Crowley was currently misting the leaves of his plants, back home at last. Aziraphale had missed him terribly, so much so that he almost didn’t want to let Crowley go back to his flat. He wasn’t sure why that was, nor did he manage to get a proper explanation for it, but Crowley hadn’t minded the closeness since he felt the same. He could always ask Aziraphale about it later, anyway.

But right now he had to wonder if there was a secondary reason for Aziraphale to drag out the visit as long as he had. His plants weren’t acting as terrified as usual. They were actually glowing a bit, and with more than just health.

_Angel, I told you to do one thing…_

“I knew he couldn’t resist it,” Crowley sighed, frowning slightly. The plants twitched their leaves, each of them stopping in immediate fear when his eyes landed on them. “You’d better not get used to that. No love and hugs to be had from me. That clear?”

Most of them shrunk back in acknowledgement, but the pot of pansies that he’d carried out from his room giggled knowingly, their petals wriggling with glee as the outside light filtered down onto them. Crowley always made sure to give them their time under the skylight, since he liked to keep them in his room and it got fairly dark in there, but perhaps he was being a little too soft on these flowers. They had far more personality than any of his other plants dared to show and damn it, he just couldn’t bring himself to chastise them, not for anything. Probably because every time he looked at them he was reminded of Aziraphale’s small, hopeful smile when he had handed them over. So shy, so cute…

Thinking back on that day eased some of the irritation from his expression, he could feel it; but Crowley refused to let the others see how these pansies were whipping him. His suspicious glare centered on their pot in an instant, and he heard a few hushes before the main group settled down.

“And just what’re you snickering about, eh?”

The pansies stared up at him, their flowery faces showing nothing but blank looks. Oh, so that’s how it was gonna be? Adorable, stubborn bastards.

Crowley growled. “Okay, fine. If you won’t tell me here,” he said, snatching up their pot with a violent shake, “then you can tell me as I destroy all your little friends, one by one!”

The rest of the plants trembled as he stalked off down the hallway, towards his kitchen. That was where the garbage disposal was, and Crowley made use of it quite often - usually when he was in the mood to toss out the dead leaves that he found in his plant pots. He didn’t have a compost pile to throw them in, but the garbage disposal worked just as well.

As soon as he set the pansies down, they gave him the equivalent of a smug grin. He sneered at them, but didn’t expect that to scare them after how nice he’d been already. “Shut it, would ya? I have to keep up appearances! If those guys knew what I actually do in here, they wouldn’t grow nearly as well!”

And without a second’s warning, Crowley reached in to pluck at least three wrinkled, dead leaves off of their dirt. The pansies flinched a little, complaining in their tiny voices about the abruptness, but Crowley shook his head at them. “It’s not like I’m ripping them off you,” he hissed. “Take it easy!”

The garbage disposal sounded, tearing up the leaves he had put in, and while all that noise was going on Crowley gave the pansies an earnest look. “So. What’s been happening around here that’s got you all fuzzy?” he asked, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Don’t tell me. Aziraphale?”

They all grew excited at the name, and so many conflicting stories started pouring from each one of them that Crowley had to wave them off before he went deaf. These things could and would talk your ear off if you let them, and it became terribly annoying really fast - even to other plants. “Right, right. I figured you’d be pleased to see each other again,” he said dismissively, reaching for a glass out of the cupboard. He held it under the tap till it was half full and brought it to his lips, hesitating for a second before shooting the flowers a sidelong glance. “Did Aziraphale say anything about me…?”

The plants in Crowley’s plant room were sitting morosely, wondering if they would ever see those lively pansies ever again, when they heard a loud, piercing crash from the direction of the kitchen. That didn’t sound like a pot to them. They raised their sulking stalks to see Crowley bounding out of the room, and were pleasantly baffled to see the demon stop to place a full, lush pot of pansies hurriedly and somewhat absentmindedly in the center of the floor before he continued in a breathless rush to his office. They were filled with questions that the pansies were unwilling to answer with more than fervent giggling, but that was apparently all part of the plan as Crowley leaned out of the doorway to growl, “Shut the fuck up, all of you!” Which didn’t solve anything, as it turned out. His outburst only made the cute, bitty flowers break into more hysterically amused laughter. “This,” he hissed, addressing the room as he gestured irritably towards their unharmed pot, “doesn’t mean anything! I _will_ be back, and you _will_ be sorry!”

The rest of the plants believed it, because when had their master ever gone back on his threats before? But those rebellious pansies (whom the plants were truly beginning to admire for their sense of courage) merely shook their leaves in mock terror, petals trembling with delight as they began to chant a teasing song of their own devising. They remained unfazed throughout the duration of Crowley’s supposedly horrifying glare and snarl combo; and instead of rushing them straight back into the kitchen for their insolence, Crowley did no more than scoff at them. How was that possible?

His expression gradually shifted, face burning with a strange pinkish hue and mouth helplessly flapping, as if he couldn’t find the right words to express himself. He didn’t give them the luxury of time to inspect such a reaction, however, and the last thing they heard before he disappeared back into his office were evil, dark curses grumbled under his breath, one of them being in a language that none of them understood.

* * *

Once he was sure that the plants couldn’t see or hear him, Crowley allowed himself a meagre amount of relief, releasing the stiff tension of his body into a somewhat less stiff hunch. He stalked over to his desk, running a hand across the smooth surface with a shiver. It felt cold to the touch, but that was all thanks to how worked up he had gotten, and it wasn’t going away yet. His heart was still pounding inside him, pulsing like a living thing in his throat, aching like it was real and not something he had created to pass as human.

He ran a hand down his face, sighing harshly into the silence. He couldn’t believe it. All those years of instilling the ultimate fear into his plants, ruined in a single day. By a simple pot of pansies. He hadn’t expected Aziraphale’s gift to be such a troublemaker, and in an odd way their one-upping, teasing nature kind of reminded him of his angel. That had to be the reason why they played him like a cello in an opera, plucking at his heartstrings with gentle strokes so similar to Aziraphale, leading him to think there was some kind of further secret waiting to be uncovered.

Cynicism was a learned practice for every demon in Hell, and for most of them it came quite naturally; but all the same, Crowley couldn’t turn off that optimistic part of him, the sliver of hope that told him there was something to this after all. He wanted to put his faith in the words that had been whispered into his ear in the kitchen - not just because of the proof that had been given, but because what he had truly desired for all these centuries was on the verge of becoming a possibility, and he desperately wanted to do what he could to help make it into more than that. The countless daydreams, and actual dreams, of a future together with Aziraphale… it was so close that Crowley could taste it. His tongue flicked out to taste the air before he could stop himself. Mmhmm. That was much better, the pure, clear sting of angelic essence tingling along his tongue as he licked his lips.

“Looks like they weren’t lying, then.”

According to those pansies, Aziraphale might have hidden a present for him in here. They didn’t know where he would hide such a thing but they had admitted to overhearing him as he talked to himself, speaking such tender sentiments aloud that they didn’t dare to reveal a single syllable of it, not even when Crowley adamantly prodded for more, or at least a hint. It was frustrating, making him feel far more impatient than usual as he flicked out his tongue again, this time in annoyance. Crowley could taste nothing but his angel everywhere. It was driving him nuts and he just wanted to find whatever it was he was supposed to find. There had to be something here, he could feel it!

The demon snapped his gaze about the room, narrowing his eyes whenever he came up empty. As far as he could tell, everything looked to be in its proper position. Nothing seemed to have been moved. But then he cast a brief glance down at his desk and caught sight of something unusual inside his ansaphone. That didn’t look like the tape he’d left in there this morning. His throat grew tight as he cocked his head, leaning over the machine to confirm with a curious frown. Yup, that was a new tape altogether. What was written on the label…?

“It’s all sparkly. Weird.” Crowley squinted at it for a minute. “Oh. Looks like a heart or something, with my name on it. That’s… extremely not demonic.”

It took a while for the meaning behind the image to sink in. When it did, Crowley let out a choked gasp. “Wh-whuh!? Now!? Really!?”

There was a flurry of hands as he quickly ejected the tape and pulled it out for a closer examination. He couldn’t deny that it was a heart, especially not now that he had the picture held inches in front of his face. The top half was shaded a deep crimson red, and as it went down the color gradually faded out to pitch black. Crowley’s name was scrawled across the center of the heart with what could have been heavenly silver ink, but he wasn’t paying attention to that at the moment. No, he was too engrossed by the fact that this heart had wings of its own, colored a lighter shade of black than what was used for the bottom half. These wings curled around the outer edges, as if to protect it from harm, and Crowley’s bottom lip trembled at the sight. Those were his wings. He could see the slight reddish glow drawn around each feather, the darkness contrasting with a fiery light that never seemed to leave them, no matter how long ago the Fall had been. It didn’t hurt him, not anymore. But the reminder was always there when he looked closely.

How could Aziraphale draw his wings with such beauty, such grace? They were undeserving of the compliment, as far as Crowley saw it. Yet even though he thought that way his heart did a little flip regardless, and his smile held such fondness for the angel that it felt like it might melt his face along with the rest of his body.

“He drew this for me? Heh, reminds me of what I drew on that one ta - ”

The sentence halted, but the thought decided to finish itself. Tape. That one tape that he had been so careful to hide, so cautious not to use unless he was in dire need of it, and… Huh. Wasn’t it a funny old world.

Crowley blanched. Then his cheeks went up in passionate flames. “ _No_. He didn’t! Oh bugger it all, did he find the box!?”

Long, angry steps echoed along the walls until Crowley was faced with a room of worried plants, and he turned his gaze sharply towards each of them. “Did you know about this?” he demanded. It was difficult to remain calm but he attempted to, for the pansies’ sake. The only ones who didn’t seem genuinely confused by the question were the pansies, of bloody course, and their renewed giggling tweaked at Crowley’s already suffering patience. “Oh shut it, you. This is just… Aziraphale found all my - and he just - so this is because... Ngk...”

Great, this was really going to improve his scary image, wasn’t it? Crowley buried his head in his hands, groaning miserably. He refused to look at anything in the plant room as he turned around, preparing to stow himself away in his office for the foreseeable future. “Now he knows I stockpile his messages. Lovely.” There was silence for a moment, a few composed steps taken before the demon exploded, flinging his arms about in a mortified rage. “Aaarghhh, I should’ve hid them somewhere better!”

The safe. Why hadn’t he put the damn box in his safe!?

_Because you felt closer to him when it was nearby. They helped you to relax and fall asleep._

“You’re not helping, brain. Not helping me at all.”

_One tape a day keeps the loneliness at bay._

“I don’t listen to ‘em that often!”

_Sometimes you even sleep in the box itself. Surprising that your snake form fits it so nicely. Are the tapes really that comfy?_

“Stoooop…”

As soon as the wave of humiliation passed, Crowley pried his hands away to find that he was back in his office once more. Just like he expected, his attention was instantly drawn back to that tape again. He just couldn’t stop himself from staring. It was sitting right where he’d left it on his desk, and he was becoming more and more interested in finding out what Aziraphale had recorded for him. It was like the tape was beckoning to him. Come on, have a listen, you won’t regret it.

Fine then. Crowley snatched it up, flipping the smooth plastic over in his hand. It felt just like every other tape he’d held in the past, so why was it weighing him down? Why did it seem so heavy now? Nervously he slid it back into the ansaphone, bracing himself on the counter. He wanted to hit play, but this was different than every other message he’d gotten from his angel. This wasn’t saved without his knowledge. It was saved with Crowley specifically in mind, and he could feel his knees giving out from the amount of shaking they were doing. “Calm down. ‘S just a tape with Aziraphale’s voice on it, nothin’ you haven’t heard before!”

But in a way, it _was_ something he had never heard before. The angel had never called on purpose just to record a message for him. Okay, well sure, that was the purpose for having an ansaphone. And yes, Aziraphale had called him, and him exclusively, ever since the invention of the telephone. He answered the phone for a lot of people, but he rarely called anyone other than Crowley.

There did exist more than one box, in fact, and in it were coming on thousands of tapes containing his angel’s sweet voice. Still, it was never anything more than cordial. Hello, how are you, care to join me for lunch if you’re free. There wasn’t anything personal in those messages, they were all strictly business; and if there did happen to be a smidgen of some deep emotion buried underneath their everyday talk, then it remained just that - a suggestion that was destined never to be expressed openly. Crowley knew why it had to be this way, and he had taught himself how to read between the lines, that being the specific motive behind his push for progress. It was how he knew that the messages from before all held something deeper in them. Years and years of looking for meaning in every subtle twitch, every tiny hiccup.

But those were never anything like this.

This was so incredibly special that it was almost scary.

Crowley gave the machine a heavy stare. It stared back. Before he could change his mind, he whipped out a hand and pressed play. The grimace on his face would have been comical if he wasn’t taking this moment so seriously.

_.... My dearest Crowley. I thought it would be a pleasant change of pace to leave you a tape_ _rather than just calling you_ _._ _Now the_ _absolutely heartwarming_ _tape_ _you_ _’ve been caring for has a partner!_ _I haven’t given you anything in the way of a romantic gift since... well, you have given me so much over the years, and I’ve handed you far too little. I would like to change that, so what better way to show my sincerity than through a present! Oh, but I do apologize for listening to your_ _precious_ _tape. It was purely by accident that I discovered the box and I hope you can forgive me for..._

“Done,” Crowley sighed, feeling incredibly boneless and equally as breathless. How could he be angry when Aziraphale had gone through all this trouble just for him?

_... It was quite the challenge to come up with something to outdo my earlier poetic speech, but in the end I settled on something that I think you might like. I hope you do._

He sounded so nervous, and hearing the awkward chuckle afterward made Crowley’s heart race all over again. Without realizing it, he had leaned in so close that his nose was almost touching the ansaphone. He stood there, taut and expectant, wondering what direction this was going to head in.

_At any rate, this is the message I decided to send you. Crowley, my only love, would you... would you like to live with me? I can make room for you in my bedroom above the bookshop if you want, and I would be more than content to move into your flat too if that is what you prefer. We can discuss the possibilities whenever you like, but there is another, more important question that precedes this one. I refuse to ask you to marry me, however, unless you’re here in front of me..._

Crowley was snatching up his jacket before the tape could even finish. He didn’t have to hear the rest right now. Aziraphale’s tape wasn’t going anywhere, but Crowley certainly was. He had to leave, he had to go find that perfect angel and hear these words properly.

Marriage was a human tradition that he had observed at least a million times over the course of his stay on Earth. Demons in Hell didn’t care to understand the significance, and they would understand even less if the concept were applied to immortal beings. But Crowley understood, he appreciated, and there were tears burning in his eyes but he was alright with it. They weren’t sad tears, anyway. They were blissfully overjoyed tears that only spilled down his cheeks after he let himself show a giddy smile.

He strode briskly past the plants, deciding not to care if they got a fleeting glimpse of his weakness or not, and after a whole day of being playful bastards, he thought he could hear the pansies cheering him on. Cheering for him. Or maybe they weren’t cheering. What were they saying? Mind how you open the door?

Crowley gave them a puzzled look, but by the time he opened his door it was too late to heed their advice. Someone let out a loud grunt, and he turned back to stare in shock as Aziraphale collapsed onto his rear in the outer hallway. “Angel!?” he stammered, glancing down the corridor to make sure nobody else was coming. “What are you doing here!?”

“Oh, er, surprise!”

Aziraphale was smiling as if he hadn’t just been clobbered by a door right in the head. That didn’t lessen Crowley’s sudden wave of remorse, however, and he physically winced as he watched the angel brush his fingers against the red spot on his forehead. How much that must sting, and that bump was sure to become a bruise later if left untreated.

“I suppose I was standing a bit too close,” he said, laughing sheepishly.

That wasn’t helping, either. Crowley sighed. Fuck, he felt just awful. “Uh… sorta… Here, lemme see.”

Sinking down onto his knees, Crowley carefully felt around Aziraphale’s head, examining him for any other unintentionally inflicted injuries. There were no audible complaints, although Aziraphale’s face grew a bit red at some point, and then Crowley looked up to find their noses inches apart. The closeness had turned his face just as red and yeah, he was okay, time to step back and remember how to breathe.

Crowley stared off to the side, trying to gather his scattered wits as he cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asked, running a hand through his hair.

Aziraphale seemed to understand how poorly Crowley felt about the whole ordeal, and he reached up to place a comforting hand on the demon’s cheek. “I’m fine, I promise,” he reassured him. “You don’t have to look so guilty. I admit, it was mostly my own blunder. I’ve never done this before, so I was unsure as to where I should stand. There is a bit of protocol for such things, if I remember correctly.”

“Not really,” Crowley snorted, but the comment had teased a bit of a smile out of him again.

Aziraphale gently brushed his thumb along Crowley’s cheek, breaking a few of the trails where tears had previously fallen, and his eyes grew wide at the discovery. “Forget about me, are you alright, dear? You were crying not long ago!”

“Oh yeah, that.” Normally, Crowley was an expert at putting up a front in tricky situations. He had done it countless times when he was working a temptation, and it had always wound up successful. But after listening to that touching ansaphone message, and now being brought face to face with the angel of his innermost desires, he was finding it harder than usual to play it off as nothing. “I got myself in the face with… with antibacterial soap,” he explained, scratching unconvincingly at his chin.

“Antibacterial soap?” Aziraphale’s worry lessened just enough for him to raise an eyebrow. “How could you get that in your eyes? It’s for hand-washing.”

“Oh, for the love of - I do know that, Aziraphale,” Crowley hissed, rolling his eyes. He then decided to preserve a little bit of his dignity by wiping the remaining moisture off on his sleeve. “C’mon angel, what d’you take me for, an idiot? You didn’t expect me to just come out and say that I was bawling over your message, do you?”

“Ah, yes, well,” the adorably bemused angel began, quite ready to inform Crowley that he had done that already, and in a spectacular fashion.

But he wasn’t about to listen to that, not right now. “Oh no you don’t,” the demon muttered, bringing a finger up to Aziraphale’s lips. “I know what you’re gonna say, and yes I did, but only after… Urrrghh. Y’know what, nevermind. Doesn’t matter.”

Crowley brought his hands to Aziraphale’s face, leaning in close enough to press his lips to the red mark. As soon as he did, it disappeared completely. “How about we try this again? Just don’t stand so close to the door,” he suggested with a wry smirk.

Aziraphale gazed up at him, seeming to think something through before nodding resolutely to himself. He was about to stand up when Aziraphale reached for his sleeve, tugging him back down again. Crowley gave him a questioning glance, and the angel simply smiled in response. “Would you do me the honor of being my husband, Crowley?” he asked.

No embellishment, no grand splendour of any kind. They were sitting on their asses in the middle of the hallway, directly across from the door to Crowley’s flat. It was the least perfect setting that Crowley could have ever envisioned for a proposal. And yet Aziraphale didn’t look disappointed, not even slightly.

He blushed harder than ever before. “You sure you don’t want me to go back inside and…?”

But Aziraphale was already shaking his head. “Thank you, but no. I prefer this version to any other recreation,” he said, grinning up at Crowley with such joy that he had to believe that this was the correct choice after all. “Everything about this moment is so much more beautiful than I could have possibly imagined, and I’m looking forward to making so many more happy memories with you. Us, together, side by side. That’s all I could think about while you were gone. Does that sound agreeable to you?”

He then reached into his pocket, producing a small velvet box from within and presenting it to Crowley. Inside sat a plain golden band, twinkling mutely in the light. It wasn’t intricate or crested with diamonds, but there were two wings etched into the sides. One of them was just an outline, indicating a lighter wing, while the other was drawn to look darker. The symbolism wasn’t lost on Crowley, and he thought this ring was perfectly suited for the kind of proposal that Aziraphale had gone for in the end. Simple and sincere. He loved every last inch of it.

Coming up with an answer was easy. Crowley had known for centuries what he’d wanted, so he finally allowed himself to nod, to give himself free reign to pluck what he had been yearning for straight out of the sky, feeling like his lungs were about to burst the entire time. “Of course,” he whispered, laughing as he brought their lips together at long last. “Oh, angel... Of course it does. It’s so much more than fucking agreeable...”

* * *

They had been living at the cottage for a little over a year when the tradition finally began.

Aziraphale had been snuggling cozily into their couch all morning, covered up right down to his toes with a blue tartan flannel blanket that he was not eager to leave for any reason other than breakfast, lunch and dinner. Oh, and the occasional snack. Rural living was treating him quite nicely, from the lack of customers pestering him to the abundance of time to spend with Crowley pressed against his side. It was all rather freeing, and he did so enjoy having the freedom to be… well, free.

He couldn’t recall a time when he had ever felt more contented with life, and with love. Peace, that’s what this was.

“Hey angel, guess what time it is!”

Pausing in the middle of flipping a page, Aziraphale glanced up from the print to smile over at his demon. Crowley waggled his eyebrows at him from the doorway, arms hidden behind his back, and that had to have something to do with his question. “Time for whatever it is you have in your hands?” he suggested, placing a bookmark in his novel and setting it aside. “I do hope that’s the right answer because I neglected to put a clock in the living room.”

“Don’t worry, you guessed right.” Without further ado, Crowley revealed what he had been keeping out of sight, waving a very familiar object in the air with a warm grin. “Happy anniversary, angel.”

Aziraphale sat up straighter, so he could peer over at the object. “Is that…?”

Crowley’s grin widened. “Yup. It’s _the_ tape. You know the one.”

He sauntered over to where Aziraphale was lounging, waiting patiently until an arm lifted the blanket with a chuckle. “I thought we could listen to it,” he said, laying himself down on top of the angel with a content sigh. “‘S not like anyone ever calls us, anyway.”

Aziraphale dropped the blanket back down as soon as Crowley was settled, not wanting to lose any warmth, and he let out a pleased sigh of his own as his husband nuzzled up against his throat. “Anathema calls occasionally, dear, and so does Tracy.”

“How about I miracle our cottage into a dead zone?”

“Crowley, really.”

He knew that the demon wasn’t being entirely serious, but he could still hear the hopeful tinge to his words. “So do you want to? Or is that a no? I guess we don’t have to if you got other things to do…”

“Oh good Lord,” Aziraphale exclaimed, chuckling. “Crowley, I would love to, if you’d just let me get a word in to tell you so! You always seem to put the cart before the horse, you know that?”

“Do not,” he grumbled, but Aziraphale could feel the smile pressing against his skin, followed by a deep, lingering kiss. “That is better than being too fast for you, though. Mm. I’ll tell you what. You can have the honor of putting the tape in the ansaphone.”

“For this year, at least.”

Crowley propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes radiating with excitement. “You mean we can do this again?” he asked.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

The answer to that question never came. Crowley had decided that kissing was far more important than answering a question that was not only senseless, but rather nonsensical as well. His hands were running through Aziraphale’s hair as the angel tried to focus, and though it was clumsily done, the tape eventually levitated its way into the ansaphone. Once there, all hands were required on deck, certain to be preoccupied for the rest of the day and far into the evening.

Meanwhile, the pansies, still alive and well, settled into their pot, basking in the refreshing sunlight beaming through their window perch as they prepared to listen to the first of many replays of that glorious day in history.

_.... My dearest Crowley…_

**Author's Note:**

> .... and I wrote more poetry because somehow either Aziraphale or Crowley demands it.
> 
> Come and say hi on Tumblr!
> 
> You can find me at my main blog [@refraingirl](https://refraingirl.tumblr.com/) or at my writing blog [@refraingirl-the-writer](https://refraingirl-the-writer.tumblr.com/)!


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